The Better Claim
by EOlivet
Summary: Grissom contemplates his life with and without Sara.


Disclaimer: The characters you recognize described herein are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Alliance Atlantis Productions and CBS. All other characters are my creation. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Warning: I make no claims about the medical accuracy of events described here. I've taken some liberties with geographic distance, as well as some of the CBS Web site backstory. Also, time shifts pretty rapidly in this story. Hopefully you'll get the hang of it after a while.  
  
Archive: I never thought I'd write this line, but just let me know where the Web site is.  
  
Acknowledgments: To Anna for all her encouragement, and for first introducing me to the idea of Grissom & Sara. With apologies to Robert Frost.  
  
Rating: TV-14 for mature themes. If you're not into romance, surrealism or angst, bail out now!  
  
***  
  
The Better Claim  
  
***  
  
Gil Grissom opened his eyes and glanced over at the smiling brunette lying beside him.  
  
"Morning," said Sara Sidle. Her eyes glowed in the morning light, and she was warm, so very warm...  
  
He got up and looked around the hotel room, stung by its emptiness and by the chill hovering in the air.  
  
He went to shower and the water was warm, like the touch of her lips. The shower wavered, the water turning frigid.  
  
He was sprawled against the dumpster, cradling Sara's lifeless, cold body...  
  
He shut off the water and quickly got dressed. Grissom picked up the folded piece of paper on the table...  
  
She waved an envelope in front of him. "Guess what this is?"  
  
...placed it in his breast pocket, and left the room.  
  
It was unseasonably pleasant by northern California standards and he decided to walk to his destination. San Francisco bustled around him as he continued, oblivious, feeling the sunlight on his shoulders, as the old song went. But the wind by the bay couldn't stay silent for long, and it whipped into a sharp breeze, pelting the street with frigid air. He pulled his jacket more tightly around him.  
  
She stormed out of the lab and started down the street. "Sara," he called, trying to match her determined stride. "Sara?"  
  
She finally stopped at the edge of the curb. "You don't want to be here," she informed him, her back still turned.  
  
He took a step towards her. "Why would you say that?"  
  
Finally, she turned around. "You keep talking about how this lab is subpar compared to the lab in Vegas. You criticize my work, which you've never done." She paused. "I just get the feeling you'd rather be back there. And I wish..." She folded her arms and leaned against the building. "I wish you'd understand..."  
  
He went to remove his coat to give it to her, but her hand stopped him. "Are you cold?" he asked, softly, feeling her hand on his chest.  
  
Sara leaned forward and he felt the touch of her lips for the first time. And he didn't stop. Her hands went around his neck, and his around her waist and he discovered out there on that dark street what he'd been missing all these years -- the touch of her hands and the warmth of her mouth...  
  
Grissom turned the corner sharply and pulled open the nearest door he could find. The wind blew it shut behind him.  
  
The bar was dark, since who wanted to be reminded they were drinking in the morning. A few customers -- regulars -- didn't seem to mind, and he took a seat at the far corner.  
  
The bartender approached, and in the dark, Grissom could barely see his face. "What'll it be?"  
  
"Scotch. Neat."  
  
"Well, it's just--it's just too neat." He watched her with amusement as she carefully took each individual thing off his desk.  
  
She caught his quizzical look and shrugged. "I, uh, figured you wouldn't want me to sweep everything off the desk, so I'm...neatly sweeping. Give me a break, I'm kind of new at this, all right?" A blush colored her cheeks, followed by a warm smile. "I'll put everything back exactly as it was. I promise."  
  
He put a completely innocent arm around her shoulder. "Sara, this work you're doing has  
  
potential. But remember to survey the whole scene before you start in on the details." His tone was light, though his words held all the elements of a simple workplace conversation.  
  
Her eyes surveyed the room, and she turned to him when she had noticed the sofa in the corner of his office. "Ah, I see your point, professor," she said, pensively, leading him over to the sofa.  
  
Through barely contained laughter, she murmured "Care to teach me again?", before pulling him down on top of her.  
  
The bartender set the drink down and disappeared back into the darkness. Grissom picked up the glass and tilted it to the side, trying to see something in it or through it. He  
  
set it back down and rested his hands on the bar's smooth surface...  
  
Her skin was so smooth. Her entire body had the feel of the softness and smoothness of her face.  
  
He ran his hand down the side of her face.  
  
He downed the scotch in one shot, placed a few bills on the counter and walked back out into the sunlight. A few more blocks and he was at the church.  
  
It was early, and very few people had arrived, or maybe that was all who were coming. He found a seat near the back and waited for the service to start.  
  
He waited until the credits started before moving to turn off the TV. Sara had fallen asleep in his lap while watching some public television special he felt would be relevant to her research. Clearly it had not been relevant enough.  
  
He stopped, though when he heard the soft sound of organ music coming from the television. He settled back down on the sofa to watch the program.  
  
Sara must've heard the music too, as she stirred and opened her eyes. When she saw what was on TV, she looked up and gave him the same quizzical expression she was used to receiving. "You watch those silly Saturday night church programs?"  
  
"Sometimes," he told her, quietly running his fingers through her hair.  
  
She was silent for a few minutes before he heard her sigh. "I love being here... just being here with you. I know I sleep better at your place." He could feel her smile. Then, she continued, half-jokingly. "I wish I could be here all the time. Y'know, and never miss a minute."  
  
He considered her suggestion briefly, his fingers still threading their way through her hair. And it was as easy a decision as leaving Las Vegas. "Maybe you should." He paused. "Be here all the time."  
  
She sat up so hastily that she almost fell off the sofa, and when he steadied her shoulders with his arms, the warmth of her smile had melted everything around them, and all he saw was her.  
  
Her smile challenged him to take it back, but he answered her doubts with a smile of his own. "Really?" she couldn't help but asking.  
  
"Amen," he replied with the congregation. And the service was over.  
  
Grissom watched as four men he'd never met made their way to the front of the church and lifted her coffin onto their shoulders.  
  
"Ahhhh -- Grissom! Gil, put me down!" Sara shrieked in surprise as he lifted her into his arms and began carrying her into his apartment. Laughter soon mixed with her shocked outcries."C'mon -- all my stuff is outside, and this--this is arcane."  
  
He stopped halfway into the apartment and looked at her. "It's tradition," he said, simply.  
  
Now she looked completely confused. "It is not tradition -- well, yes it is tradition, but not for this occasion. It's the wrong tradition," she clarified, daring him to challenge her.  
  
He thought about this for a moment, still holding her, still standing completely still. "It's modified tradition," he offered finally. "A form of tradition...that can be used for different occasions...such as this."  
  
"Now you're offering evidence to support your own made up tradition." She disentangled herself from his arms and stood a couple feet away, now fully inside the apartment. "Let's meet halfway on this one."  
  
They smiled at each other. "It's very practical when you think about it," Grissom mused, walking around the apartment. "When you write up your notes, I'll be right here to look at them."  
  
"Oh I see," Sara replied, looping her arms around his neck. "We're living together in the interest of science."  
  
"Exactly." He kissed her quickly. "I think your grant sponsors would appreciate it."  
  
Sara ran to the phone and picked it up. "Well then let's call Berkeley right now." She put the phone to her ear, but made no motion to dial any numbers. "Yes, is this the dean's office? This is Sara Sidle -- I'm a researcher in Forensics. I just wanted to let you know that you can expect great progress on my research grant because my advisor Gil Grissom and I are living together now. Oh really?...Take the rest of the day off...?" As his arms went around her waist, she put down the phone and turned to him, her eyes shining.  
  
He blinked as people began filing out of the church. He turned to look for the coffin, but all he saw was a familiar face. "Beautiful service," Catherine remarked, quietly. "Sara would've hated it. Nick and Warrick wanted to be here too, but..."  
  
They had walked out of the church and were standing on the steps, when he noticed the car was gone. The car carrying her body had disappeared, seemingly into nowhere.  
  
The car came out of nowhere.  
  
"Grissom? What are you doing?"  
  
Catherine was still standing on the steps of the church, but Grissom had walked halfway across the street and stopped. Cars were flying by. Horns honked and brakes squealed across the pavement.  
  
There was a dull thud, and then the squeal of brakes, and the silhouette of a body carelessly tossed against a dumpster.  
  
"Sara?" he called, questioningly, not yet willing to believe it was her.  
  
He crossed the alley, and knelt beside her body.   
  
The car with her body was nowhere in sight.  
  
The car stopped right in front of him, and the driver scrambled out. "Oh my God, oh my God, is she okay -- I swear I didn't see her."  
  
The driver's breath came in short bursts, but he was more focused on Sara's breath -- it did not come at all.  
  
His feet began to move again, and he crossed the street, Catherine's protests mixing with the sound of oncoming traffic. A couple blocks away from the church, and he once again found himself standing outside the bar.  
  
"You're back," the bartender remarked. "Two visits in an hour." He poured a drink into a shot glass, and passed it down to Grissom. "Scotch, right? On the rocks?"  
  
This scotch was cold in his hands.  
  
She was so cold, or perhaps it was his touch that made her cold.  
  
He pushed the scotch away.  
  
The bartender shrugged and removed the glass from the counter. "Something wrong...girlfriend maybe?"  
  
"Girlfriend maybe," Grissom repeated, with a touch of an ironic smile.  
  
Ignoring this cryptic remark, the bartender slung a towel over his shoulder. "What happened?"  
  
"What is it?" Grissom asked, surveying the white envelope she was holding in front of his face.  
  
He removed the folded piece of paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it and began to read it to himself. "Dear Ms. Sidle. It is with great pleasure that we at Berkeley inform you that you have been awarded..."  
  
"...a year grant to research applications of new forensic technology." She folded the letter back up, barely able to contain her excitement. "It's a pilot program for the city. I heard about it a while ago, and I sent a letter expressing some interest -- I just didn't think..." She gave him a warm smile, beaming with anticipation.  
  
"Congratulations," he said. "So you're giving your notice?"  
  
She looked at the ground, and kicked at a stone with her shoe. "Kind of," she admitted, a little shyly. "It's just, um...well, I was wondering if....y'know, uh..." She raised her eyes again with a new confidence. "Come with me," she blurted out.  
  
He stared at her, not sure if he'd heard her correctly. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Well -- you could teach there. I mean, with your qualifications, I'm sure they'd hire you. With this job, the science...it gets lost in the politics, in the titles and the red tape. It's...I mean, it doesn't seem like something you've always wanted to do. And, I, well..." she trailed off, glancing briefly at the ground. "I, uh, I could use an advisor."  
  
There was a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Catherine standing beside him.  
  
"Catherine," he found himself whispering. "Catherine."  
  
Confusion ran rampant over the driver's face, but he was clearly willing to do anything.  
  
"Catherine -- is that her name?"  
  
"Get Catherine," Grissom commanded, softly. Then again, louder this time. "Get Catherine."  
  
The driver ran his hand over his face, every feature radiating panic. "I...I don't know where Catherine is. If you tell me where I can find her, I--"  
  
"Grissom." Catherine's tone was insistent, her hand now more firmly planted on his shoulder. Then she turned to the bartender. "How many has he had?"  
  
"Just one. Almost an hour ago," the bartender answered.  
  
Catherine nodded her thanks. "Yeah, that sounds about right," she decided. She leaned down so Grissom had no choice but to look at her. "Gil, I'm gonna take you home now, okay? My car's outside."  
  
He got up voluntarily and followed Catherine out the door. There was a car pulled halfway up on the curb, its hazard lights flashing.  
  
The ambulance lights flashed patches of red and white onto her face, partially obscured by the panicked driver who wouldn't leave.  
  
Catherine kept her hand on his arm. "Where were you staying? Do you have any luggage?"  
  
Her luggage was still outside his apartment--no. He ran his hand over his face again, and it was cold, just like--  
  
Catherine had opened the car door and was waiting. He got into the car and heard the door shut.  
  
Sara shut the door to his office, her eyes shining.  
  
The ambulance doors shut...  
  
And there was another car taking her body away. It just disappeared, back into nowhere.  
  
"...you didn't tell anybody where you were going, nobody could find you." Catherine's tone was edgy, but concerned. She turned to briefly glance at him, wanting answers.  
  
She needed an answer. Her eyes brimmed with hope and anxiety. Her request hung in the air between them and he considered it. A life steeped in science and research. Freedom from the politics of this office. A place to start over.  
  
"It had the better claim," Grissom told Catherine.  
  
"What?"  
  
"The road I was on."  
  
Catherine sighed. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine, but you should tell somebody," she advised, choosing to simply ignore his last comment. "For God's sake, you're walking into oncoming traffic, hanging out at a bar, zoning out every three seconds. Gil, what happened between you and Sara?"  
  
For a minute, he said nothing. Then finally "She offered me everything I'd ever wanted."  
  
"And you said...?"  
  
"I can't." The words took what seemed like forever to form.  
  
Her expression wavered, but only for a moment. "Why not?" she pressed him, as  
  
forcefully as she could with her voice just above a whisper.  
  
"The lab needs me here." His words were convincing to his ears. And to hers. She had slowly taken a step back, a glassy film slowly covering her eyes.  
  
He stared straight ahead, allowing Catherine to interpret his silence for herself.  
  
She shook her head. "Of course you turned her down. Because she had gotten too close?  
  
Because you could lose yourself in her and let your guard down? Because you thought you might fall in love with her?"  
  
"No," he responded quietly. Sara was already too close. He knew he could lose himself in her and let his guard down. And he didn't think he might fall in love with her -- he knew. There was a much simpler reason than all of that.  
  
Because he was scared. Of losing himself in her. Of letting his guard down. Of falling in love with her.  
  
Of being happy. It was an unfamiliar road.  
  
Catherine didn't ask any more questions, and the two of them remained silent.  
  
She wasn't responding. She looked utterly humiliated. He took a small step towards her, hoping to find words to reassure her. He ran his hand down the side of her face. "Of course I'll still be happy to help you. If you want to send me your notes, I could take a look at them--"  
  
"Stop," Sara said, icily. Her words had never been so hard. "Just stop." She stepped away, her grip tightening around the letter in her hand. "You're so cold," she said, almost to herself. Then she looked directly at him. "You're so cold," she repeated, her voice breaking.  
  
She backed away from him into the alley, and when she finally turned around, the car had picked her up and tossed her aside. Her entire life turned into a dull thud.  
  
He looked out the window at the cars whizzing by. Catherine turned the car onto an exit ramp, and the tires squealed softly.  
  
Adrenaline propelled his feet and Grissom was kneeling beside the dumpster over Sara's body, calling her name like it was the only word he knew.  
  
"Oh my God, oh my God, is she okay -- I swear to God, I didn't see her!"  
  
The driver's breath came in short bursts, but he was more focused on Sara's breath -- it did not come at all.  
  
He tried to breathe life into her -- resuscitating her was only secondary. She needed life more than she needed breath.  
  
"I'm gonna call 911," offered the driver, retreating back into his car. Grissom noticed the driver's lack of presence more than he had noticed the driver's presence. It was just him and Sara.  
  
She needed life, she needed life. One...two. One...two.  
  
Then, breath caught in her throat and a short, soft melodious cough filled his ears.  
  
"Sara?" he asked for maybe the hundreth time. His mind switched into survival mode. She had gone through a serious trauma. Her body was shaking. She might go into shock. "Are you cold?"  
  
He went to remove his coat to give it to her, but her hand stopped him.  
  
Her eyes were shut tight -- it was too much effort to keep them open. He could hear her gasping, trying desperately to inhale. The air rushed in too quickly, and it was choking her.  
  
He tried to speak, but breath choked his throat as well. He knelt over to try and resuscitate her once again.  
  
"Grissom?" Catherine put her hand on his shoulder, but he continued to stare straight ahead.  
  
As he breathed life into her mouth, he felt her capture his lips with her own. The split second heat of her warm lips sent her life coursing through him, and he'd never felt so alive as he was right now with Sara. He responded, letting his lips touch hers, and felt a chill. Her lips had turned cold.  
  
He felt a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Grissom?" Catherine shook his shoulder a little harder.  
  
"Are you...okay?" The driver asked him.  
  
Grissom was sprawled against the dumpster, cradling Sara's lifeless, cold body, his arms around her back, his hand in her hair. A picture of romance for a forensic scientist so used to the dead.  
  
""Catherine," he found himself whispering. "Catherine."  
  
Confusion ran rampant over the driver's face, but he was clearly willing to do anything.  
  
"Catherine -- is that her name?"  
  
"Get Catherine," Grissom commanded, softly. Then again, louder this time. "Get Catherine."  
  
The driver ran his hand over his face, every feature radiating panic. "I...I don't know where Catherine is. If you tell me where I can find her, I--"  
  
But the driver was cut off by the sound of sirens and lights flashing patches of red and white onto Sara's face. And in that moment, Grissom realized this was a familiar scene. A crime scene. In a few minutes, the police would arrive and there'd be witnesses...and...evidence...  
  
He looked at her face, at her lips that had been so warm. She was so cold, or perhaps it was his touch that made her cold. Her eyes shut, one hand lying at her side still clutching her letter that was supposed to have been her ticket out of here.  
  
And it was.  
  
He waited until he heard the panicked driver explain what had happened, and felt the footsteps of the approaching paramedics. He couldn't be here and do his job. But he couldn't stand by and watch others do it either.  
  
So he got up and left because he didn't know what else to do.  
  
"I don't know what to do," he heard Catherine explain, and he looked over to see her, Nick and Warrick standing over him. The car door was open. They were back at the lab. Ten hours -- day to night -- gone as quickly as the past week.  
  
Grissom got out of the car, and started walking towards the lab. Slowly, his team followed him, a little anxiously.  
  
"How was Sara's--" Nick was cut off with a swift look from Catherine.  
  
Grissom headed for his office, hearing Catherine and Nick quietly whispering behind him.  
  
"He's not dealing with it, Catherine -- look at him."  
  
"He is. Just in his own way," Catherine reassured Nick, as the two of them headed down the opposite hallway.  
  
Grissom entered his office and slowly sat down at his desk. He looked down and realized he'd been clutching her letter in his hands the whole time. As carefully as he could, he smoothed out the letter. He hadn't found it until he was in San Francisco. He hadn't remembered taking it either.  
  
He turned to his computer and began to write: "To whom it may concern"  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his open door. Warrick was in his doorway. "Hey Grissom," he called. Then, his tone softened. "It's been hard...for all of us this past week. I mean, better to try and move on than to dwell so much on..."  
  
"The road not taken?"  
  
Warrick was silent for a moment, considering how to respond. "Anyway, glad you're back, man," he said finally.  
  
Surveying his office, Grissom took in his work. His life. As he was about to turn his attention back to the computer screen, Catherine entered, followed by another young woman. Catherine began to talk, and he was sure she was introducing this girl to him, although he couldn't figure out why.  
  
"She'll be...filling in for a while until we can...requisition a new worker." Catherine chose her words carefully.  
  
The girl extended her hand.  
  
"Hi, I'm Sara Sidle." She stopped at his desk, as the other students from the Harvard seminar filed out in back of her. "I just...I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your lecture today. Forensics...that's a pretty hot topic."  
  
Grissom took the new girl's hand. "Gil Grissom," he said.  
  
Catherine gave him a nod of thanks as she led the girl out of the room.  
  
He turned back to the screen, the words now flowing effortlessly.  
  
"I write to you on behalf of Ms. Sara Sidle, who unfortunately will be unable to complete her research grant at Berkeley. I, however, have had a considerable amount of experience in this field and would like to offer my services as an advisor to the person who completes this research. You will find a list of my qualifications attached. I look forward to meeting with you to discuss this further."  
  
Grissom finished the letter, printed it out and signed it. Before he could convince himself otherwise, he traveled with the stamped letter out to the mailbox, just around the corner from the alley.  
  
He stared at the alley and the alley stared back. There was no ambulance, no panicked driver, no lifeless body by the dumpster. Just as in San Francisco there would be no second chances, no fresh starts, no redemption. He would have a new job, but the same old life.  
  
Walking slowly, almost reverently to the place where he'd seen her last, Grissom finally allowed himself to grieve for her loss. Not for the missed opportunities and the unrequited feelings they'd never shared, but the memories and moments they had. For what was, not what could never be. For Sara -- what she had meant and what she would always mean to him.  
  
Then, he placed his letter in the dumpster and walked back to his office. He picked up her letter and read it again. Then, he folded it up and put it in his desk. He would continue his work and honor her memory. He would try to incorporate a little piece of everything she'd given him into how he lived. This would be his second chance, his fresh start, his redemption. He would continue on with his life just as it was.  
  
And that would make all the difference.  
  
The End.  
  
***  
  
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood  
  
And sorry I could not travel both  
  
And be one traveler, long I stood  
  
And looked down one as far as I could  
  
To where it bent in the undergrowth.  
  
Then took the other as just as fair  
  
And having perhaps the better claim  
  
Because it was grassy and wanted wear  
  
Though as for that, the passing there  
  
Had worn them really about the same.  
  
And both that morning equally lay  
  
In leaves no step had trodden black  
  
Oh I kept the first for another day  
  
Yet knowing how way leads onto way  
  
I doubted if I should ever come back.  
  
I shall be telling this with a sigh  
  
Somewhere ages and ages hence  
  
Two roads diverged in a wood and I  
  
I took the one less traveled by  
  
And that has made all the difference.  
  
-The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost 


End file.
